


A Spell for Victory

by ANocturnalCow212



Series: Magical Means for Practical Ends [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Hand Jobs, Pre-Battle of the Bastards, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 11:52:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11012880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANocturnalCow212/pseuds/ANocturnalCow212
Summary: Worried about Jon's battle plan against the Boltons, Sansa decides to carry out a magical ritual to increase the odds of a Stark victory.





	A Spell for Victory

Sansa fumed in the solitude of her tent.

 _I won’t let him ever touch you again,_ Jon had said of Ramsey earlier when they quarreled, _I’ll protect you, I promise._

Promises didn’t win battles, though. Promises didn’t increase their odds. Sansa had sent word to Littlefinger for assistance from the Vale, but she hadn’t received a reply from him. For days she had debated whether to tell Jon of her request. Perhaps if she told him now, he would hold off the attack. But if Littlefinger decided not to help, their forces would be at the mercy of Ramsey while they waited, and it would all be her fault. Exhausted and at a loss for what to do, Sansa’s mind wandered, remembering something Lady Melisandre had mentioned in passing.

As though summoned by her thoughts, Lady Melisandre appeared at the entrance to her tent. “My Lady, I hope you have not retired for the night.”

“I’m awake, my lady. Please, come in.”

The priestess sauntered to where Sansa sat, wearing a somber expression. She heaved a sigh and looked into the flames flickering in the nearby torch.

“His Lordship’s words trouble me so, Lady Stark,” she said. “He asked me not to bring him back if he is to fall tomorrow.”

“I’m sure he won’t be able to bear the shame of failure—all because he wouldn’t listen,” Sansa said bitingly.

 Melisandre’s keen eyes bore into Sansa, compelling her to fidget in her seat. “The time will come when dismal words can be spoken aloud without consequence, Sansa Stark, but now is not the time. I sense a doubt in the men and their leader, and in you. Doubt doesn’t win a battle.”

Sansa slumped in her seat and chastised herself. Of course now wasn’t the time to be unkind. Not to Jon. Not when he was fighting to win her back her home. She raised her gaze to Melisandre. “You’re capable of things mortal men aren’t. You brought Jon back. Is there something you can do…to make it better?”

The corner of the red priestess’ lips turned up just a crack. “We’ve spoken of it. I know I had your full attention.”

Ducking her head to hide her blush, Sansa felt her stomach turn. She felt a snarl building in her chest, something she could not explain. Clinching her eyes shut, she nodded. “Do what you must.”

“I would have been happy to,” Melisandre sighed. She pulled a scrap of cloth from her bosom. Upon it was embroidered the sigil of House Bolton—a flayed man propped upside down. “But Lord Snow has shirked my advances in the past. I may try again tonight, but I do not have much sway on him.”

Sansa furrowed her brows. “Then…what will you—“

Melisandre took her hand and placed the cloth in Sansa’s hand.

“Have you gone completely mad?” Sansa dropped the cloth. “I can’t possibly—“

Shrugging, Melisandre withdrew from the tent. “It’s up to you, Lady Stark,” she said over her shoulder, “How much do you want your precious Winterfell back?”

***

Chilly winds knocking the wind from her lungs, Sansa trembled under her thick northern furs as she made her way to Jon’s tent. If the wind stole her breath all together, ended her life there and then—she would have considered it a small mercy.

The shadow of Jon’s cloaked figure danced on the canopy of his tent. He was pacing. Perhaps even considering a change of plans.

Fastening her own cloak around her tightly, Sansa entered and made her presence known with a quiet cough.

“Sansa…” Jon said, the usual warmth in his eyes missing. Her words earlier still stung him. Speaking behind a mask of indifference, he turned his back to her. “It’s late. There’s no telling what tomorrow will bring. You should try and get some sleep.”

“Jon, about what I said…”

“It’s done,” he cut her off in a low growl.

Sansa bit her lips. Under her cloak, she hugged herself to keep from shivering. “You promised you’d protect me.”

“Aye, and I meant it.”

“I believe you, Jon.” She met his eyes—so devoted, so caring. He would shun her if she voiced her proposal, but she’d been left with no other option. Melisandre brought Jon back to life. Surely, her magic would work in guaranteeing victory.

Steeling herself, Sansa moved further inside Jon’s tent, closer to him. “I don’t know much about battles, Jon, and it pains me that there’s nothing more I can do.”

“You’ve given the men a reason to fight, Sansa.” Jon’s assuring smile reached his eyes, making her heart thump impossibly hard, and her worry rise tenfold. “You’ve given me a reason to live.”

“There is only one thing I can do, Jon. And I need your help.”

Jon was the picture of servitude. He’d do anything for her.

“It’s something Lady Melisandre said would work. Promise me you’ll take part in it.”

Drawing his head back, Jon knotted his brows in question.

“Promise me, Jon.”

“Of course.”

Sansa exhaled sharply.

“Sansa, what is it?” Jon pressed his bare hand to her cheek, concerned. His eyes widened. “You’re freezing!”

And he was warm. So, so, warm. Tilting her chin up but keeping her gaze cast down, Sansa took a steadying breath. “Take off your clothes.”

Stumbling back, colliding with the edge of his cot, Jon looked at her incredulously. His eyes darkened, and Sansa noticed the apple of his throat bobbing as he gulped. He was repulsed by her. He had to be. How could he not?

But this wasn’t about her. This was about Rickon. This was about Winterfell. This was about restoring peace to the North and avenging their family. Raising a mental shield against his judgement, she pulled the embroidered cloth Melisandre had given her and showed it to him.

“Commit this image to your mind, Jon,” Sansa ordered. She would not hear his protests. He had promised her, and she would not leave until he’d kept his word. Holding the scrap of cloth over the flames of the nearest torch, she dared to meet Jon’s eyes. “Commit the image of destroying the Boltons to your mind.” His dumbstruck gaze remained on her. “Please.”

He complied. Sansa lowered the cloth into the flame, and the two of them watched their enemy’s sigil burn.

“Now undress,” Sansa said in a low voice, dropping what remained of the cloth into the fire. “I’ll look away if you prefer.”

“Sansa…”

“Please, Jon,” Sansa clenched her eyes shut, “It might make all the difference.”

She waited, listening to wind howling outside. She hugged herself tighter as she heard the dull thud of his cloak hitting the ground, the jingle of his belt’s buckle unfasten, and the whizzing tug of the ties on his jerkin. She should have yearned to bolt out of the tent, far away from the camp from shame, but…but all she wanted to do was turn around and look.

“All right,” Jon spoke with authority. He used the same voice with the men under his command—strong, resolute, sure of himself, so brave. “What next?”

Turning to face him, and timidly blinking her eyes open, Sansa did her best so as not to gasp at the sight of Jon’s naked body. It wasn’t the bright gashes littering his torso that alarmed her, but how agreeable he was to look upon despite them. He had a lean frame that was taut with muscle. A faint peppering of hair ran from his belly button, down to his…

“You need to spill your seed,” Sansa blurted out in a comically high pitch. Jon seemed to moisten his tongue to help himself speak, but she didn’t give him a chance. “I have to reach a peak too…” She threw off her cloak and stepped out of her boots, naked as her name day, “…somehow.”

Sansa had learned from Margaery that girls could feel carnal pleasures, but she had never felt them. How could she, having only lain with Ramsey Bolton? She had ardently hoped Melisandre would perform the ritual for she wasn’t so sure if she could.

But something in the way Jon’s eyes roamed her body, his mouth gone slightly slack, his fists clenched at his sides, and his cock twitching to attention, helped quell her trepidations.

“Shall we get comfortable?” she tilted her chin towards his cot. Reinvigorated by his inability to tear his eyes from her, she sauntered past him and sat down at the bottom of the cot, hugging her long, bare legs to her breasts.

Jon followed suit and sat at the head of the bed, facing her. “Sansa,” he rasped, “if someone’s to walk in.”

“Sssh, Jon,” Sansa brushed her cold fingertips against his warm, plump lips. Propelled by instinct, she leaned forward and placed a feather-light kiss on them. “Remember the image. Keep your mind’s eye trained on it. Concentrate.”

Letting out a heavy breath, he closed his eyes. His features relaxed, but tensed again as she stroked up his thighs.

“Do you see it?” Sansa kept stroking gently, lovingly. She felt oddly safe like this with him.

Jon breathed deeply. His chest rose and fell. He nodded.

Gingerly taking his right hand in hers, she rubbed it vigorously, blew on it, then rubbed again till they were red and burning with heat. She then placed it on his cock—almost fully hard now— and caressed his arm. “Touch yourself, darling.”

Again, the apple of his throat bobbed up and down. His large hand encased his shaft, spread the moist juices leaking from the tip down its length, and raked his fingers up again to the top again. He did so slowly, his lips forming quiet words reminding himself to concentrate. His head fell back ever so slightly as the sensation took hold of him. A pleading moan issued from those lips, sending a trail of fire down the length of Sansa’s spine to her loins.

Tentatively brushing her fingertips over her teats, she closed her eyes to remember the Bolton sigil and the flames engulfing it. She allowed the fire to coarse through her and tried to hone it, bring it under her command. Reaching between her legs, she played with the thatch of coarse hair at the apex of her legs and felt the mound it sprouted from. The pad of her index finger brushed against a bundle of flesh, of nerves, that sent a delicious spark through her. Her breath hitched. She touched the spot again, and gasped.

Her eyes flew open to find Jon looking at her, palm relentlessly pumping his member. Gone was the bashful Jon who could only think of commenting on ‘the wolf bit’ of her dress by way of a compliment. His darkened eyes showed nothing but a feral hunger, and she wanted nothing more than to feed that hunger with her body.

Wetness pooled between her legs. She felt the itch, she felt the spark, but it all remained static.

“ _Nngh_ ,” he growled sharply, “ _Nngh,_ Sansa—is there any more?”

Sansa tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and folded her legs. “Are you…close?”

He shut his lids in response. _Yes._

“Then stop.” She placed her palm on his working hand to still him. “Lady Melisandre said not to hurry. She said to build to it gradually so that we can attune our minds to the task.”

“Victory over the Boltons,” Jon panted to himself.

“Yes,” Sansa said, admiring his strong thighs and calves splayed out between them.

“You didn’t even start.”

“I—I—“  Sansa straightened, suddenly very interested in the texture of Jon’s bed furs.

“Sansa, you don’t have to…”

“I don’t know how!”

Understanding flashed across Jon’s face—understanding and all the love for her he could muster.

“I’m not sure if I even believe if a woman can—can—“

“She can,” he said softly, walking his hands towards her, but stopping short of touching her knee.

“Will you show me, Jon? I’m afraid I’ll lose you if we don’t do this.”

He bowed his head and kissed her knee. “If that’s what you want, sweet girl. I promised, didn’t I?”

A small smile illuminating her face, she spread her legs and returned her finger to that delectable spot. Jon coaxed it aside and nuzzled into her fiery thatch of hair before running his tongue up her slit.

“Jon…” she moaned.

“Just relax,” she heard his muffled voice say as he swirled his tongue around her little pearl of pleasure. “Is that so good, Sansa?”

“So good,” Sansa hummed throwing her head back. Her thoughts were consumed by Jon—his beard scratching the inside of her thighs, the flicks of his tongue as he lapped up her wetness, the way his dark, reverent eyes stayed locked on her face. But this couldn’t be about she and him. It had to be about the Boltons and the victory they so desperately needed over them.

He slid a finger into her, then another, and started pumping gently but firmly. The pads of his fingers rubbed her sensitive walls. He splayed his free hand over her belly, stroking the soft skin under her navel with his calloused thumb, feeling her muscles constrict underneath.

Sansa felt as though she were being blown up to the edge of a cliff by scorching summer winds. It burned her from the inside out, forcing her to break into a sweat in the blistering cold, but she wanted more. She peered over the edge. How delightful would it be to jump off and let the fiery wind do as it pleased with her? She almost stepped forward, into nothingness…

Jon stopped his ministrations and kissed the inside of her thighs before sitting up. “You were close.”

Flustered and out of breath, Sansa nodded. She held her arms out to him, wanting to be held. Not missing a beat, Jon scooped her into his embrace. His heart thundered against her breast as she rested her head on his shoulder. His weeping cock poked into her arse, pleading for her attention. Reaching behind her, she ran the tip of her fingers along its length. Lifting herself up, she positioned its head at her opening and searched Jon’s anguished but hungry eyes.

“Is this…Jon, will you—“

Jon crashed his lips to hers, devouring her surprised gasps, and guided her down. They both let out a wanton howl at the feel of him completely sheathed inside her. Sansa rocked her hips, and found a rhythm that suited both of them. She brushed her thumbs down his eyelids, asking him to concentrate. This wasn’t about them. This was for victory tomorrow. Closing her eyes, she summoned the image of the Bolton sigils burning.

Jon’s hot breaths on her face, the squelching slaps of their skin, and their combined grunts and moans transported her to a vast clearing—the battlefield. Dark red stained the green of the grass. Bodies pierced with arrows lay strewn across it. But over all the carnage fluttered the wolf sigil of House Stark.

She felt her back hit the bed furs. She was so close, and the vision of victory so clear. She opened her eyes and beheld Jon, eyes screwed shut, clinging to his last ounce of restraint.

“Jon…” she sighed, the heat simmering within her, ready to burst. His cock throbbed inside her. It was time.

He looked at her through his long lashes, lips parted as he sought permission. Sansa could have wept at how beautiful he looked.

“For Winterfell,” Sansa purred.

He thrust into her forcefully, kissed up her neck till he found her lips. “For you,” he breathed against her.

A slew of involuntary quakes took hold of Sansa. Her walls clamped down on Jon’s cock, milking him of all his seed. She wrapped her legs around his waist and dug her nails into his back, basking in the weight of him on top of her as they both rode out their waves of pleasure. When Jon tried to pull away, she held him in place. Stroking his beard, she kissed his cheek.

“I saw it, Jon,” she smiled. His smile in return melted her heart. “I saw our banners over Winterfell again.”

Rolling them onto their sides, Jon pulled the furs over them. Even though war loomed mere hours away, for the few moments they shared together with their bodies tangled together, they felt safe.

**Author's Note:**

> If only having bomb sex could win actual battles...*sigh*
> 
> I wrote this little one-shot because I needed a break from plotting Live Without Shame. Hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
